Blood Flowers Blooming
by Metallover130
Summary: A strange racking agony reveals to D a change within himself. Mpreg, MxM, DxLeon Re-submitted due to error.
1. Till the Land

I.

At a quarter to midnight on a cool April evening Count D was standing in his kitchen, washing the teacups from his earlier evening meal. He'd invited the ladies from the dance clubs downstairs to join him for a nightly get-together and some pleasant conversation. No matter what hour he called they were always more than gracious and eager to oblige him, their light laughter and wide smiles something of a pick-me-up for D. He honestly didn't care much for humans, but his feelings were softer for the females due to their representation of fertility. This was even greater when the males dressed and acted as the females. Humans reproached this behavior, but truth be told in nature it was the males who dressed up and danced to catch the attention of possible mates, and specifically in birds the males were often more beautiful than the females.

That, and for some unfathomable reason D found transvestites to be endlessly entertaining. Certainly their stories were more interesting, and their lives so much more exciting. And maybe D enjoyed a certain brand of satisfaction every time Taizuu came in and saw the flock of gaily dressed she-males sitting at his table, cheeping and chittering over their cups like plucky hens. Taizuu was not fond of the "ladies" the Count had befriended, not at all. If anything he deplored them, but they payed their bills as strictly as anyone else so he had no reason to complain. Except for maybe when they swarmed him with long fingernails groping and lips swollen with collagen puckering. The thought made D smile as he ran a dishcloth over the fine china cups clinking together in the warm soapy water. The temptation to invite Taizuu over, then bring in the girls . . . ah, hilarity.

When the cups were washed D sat them upside down on a hand towel placed on the counter to dry. While he was wringing the dishcloth he suddenly felt something wet on the back of his leggings. It was nearly bedtime so he'd foregone his usual decadent dress for a simple white tunic and a pair of baggy matching trousers. Thinking he'd splashed himself somehow D ignored it until he felt another strange spot of warmth, this time feeling more like it was on the inside of his thigh. Curious and slightly nervous D reached back and touched the wet spot, then brought his fingers close to his face to see what offending substance had rubbed off.

_Blood_. Bright red and still moist, a thin smudge streaked across his thin fingers. Before D could even begin to wonder why there would be blood on the back of his pants a gush of something warm slipped down the inside of his thigh, dripping out the bottom of his pant leg to make dots on the floor.

A wave of nausea washed over D and his face went white. He groped out a hand to grab the counter for support, for his legs had turned traitorously weak, surrendering their strength in favor of buckling at the knees. His palm was still slick with dish soap and unable to get a grip D fell to the kitchen floor, dragging down the dishcloth with him. The cups, not even yet dry, fell with it, and shattered around D in a rain of ceramic shards.

The animals were all asleep or in their cages, so the noise from the kitchen fell upon deaf ears. The only one from within the apartment who heard the clamor was D himself, and he was already beginning to slip away into unconsciousness. His vision blurred and tunneled, and then everything went black.

When the light came back to his eyes D was on his couch, lying on his side facing the coffee table. There was a blanket draped over him, and a voice that was very familiar talking somewhere behind him.

"I got it, yeah. Yeah, okay. Uh-huh. No, I'm not taking him to the damn hospital!"

D sat up, rubbing his forehead. There was only one person on the entire planet who sounded like that. He could already feel the migraine coming.

"My dear detective, could you _be_ any louder? I think China might have missed that last part." He raised himself off the couch, supporting himself on the rest with his arm. He saw none other than Leon Orcot standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning on the frame and holding his cell phone to his ear. When he realized D was up he barked a goodbye to whoever he'd been talking to and slammed the phone shut.

"D!" he exclaimed, shoving the phone back into his pocket and practically running to the couch. D couldn't tell if his enthusiasm sprung from worry or anger; either of which D was in no mood for. He stopped the detective before he could get close to him again (for his new position made it evident Leon had already touched him), raising a hand, pointing his needle-sharp nails directly at the man's chest.

"No further," he warned. "Lay hands on me again and I'll end you."

"Isn't that a little ungrateful, considering I just saved your life, D?"

The pet shop owner scoffed, and cast Leon a balmy glare. "You did no such thing. My life was never in danger."

"Oh really?" Leon said. "There were about two pints of blood on the floor back there, and I may not be a doctor but that usually only happens when someone is, I don't know, _dying_?"

D only glared in response, but he'd turned milk-pale. Had he really lost that much blood? It had only been a tiny stream when he'd passed out. He blinked, shook his head, and then turned back to Leon with renewed fury.

"How did you get inside? The door was locked. Don't tell me you've broken my hinges kicking it down?"

"I didn't kick it down," Leon protested, crossing his arms and huffing like a pissed off buffalo. "The animals were screaming their heads off in here. Woo-Fei or whatever his name is let me in so we could see what was up. I know you; you wouldn't let them go nuts like that. Something had to be wrong. When we came inside we found you on the tile in a big pool of your own blood, passed out. I didn't have any trouble convincing Woo-Fei not to call the cops. I was talking to his assistant, that mousey little guy a second ago. He was seriously freaked out about it, thought you'd been attacked and wanted to take you to the emergency room." He paused. "D, were you attacked?"

"No, I was not. And I don't entirely see why you care what my state of health is, since you're only here to arrest me and drag me back to Los Angeles, heaven knows why since I've done nothing wrong." D gave Leon his signature mightier-than-thou smile. "Unless you just want me able to testify when you cuff me and toss me on the stand. Though knowing you, there would be no trial, hm? Not that you have the evidence to convict, my dear detective."

As expected, he got the appropriate effect. Leon launched into one of his rants about how D was personally responsible for this many deaths, so-and-so murders, blah, blah, blah. D tuned him out as he customarily did, and sighed in annoyance as he threw the blanket off and stood.

Then, fell to the floor in a heap, yelling loud enough to turn himself hoarse. D had been fine getting up, but once he was upright a pain like acid coursing through him tore up his insides, and he collapsed onto the carpet, clutching his abdomen and gasping for air. Leon was by his side in a moment, racing around the couch and dropping down on his knees by the black-haired man.

"D?" he asked, touching his shoulder. He recoiled from the detective's hand, curling in on himself, burying his face into the floor to hide his growing shame. To be seen like this, so weak in front of the one human being he came close to loathing

(_loving_)

above all others. Pain was still ripping up through him, from his backside to the underside of his lungs. It felt like his organs were moving inside him, tearing apart at the seams to reconfigure into something else entirely.

"Don't touch me," he whispered, shaking, beads of sweat standing out on his alabaster skin. "Just . . . just get out, Leon, _now_, before I do something I regret." Now it was Leon's turn to recoil, and he sat back looking like he'd been slapped. D had just called him by his name—something he only did when he was dead serious. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, like a puppet without a ventriloquist to give it a voice. At last he put a hand over his mouth to keep it shut, and he glared at a spot on the wall, frustrated and put-off.

D, who by then had had quite enough of this, put his hands under himself and got up. Pain laced up and down his spine and sweat ran down his forehead, but he was determined now not to make another sound. Not when Leon was there. Feverishly he moved, walking with noted difficulty toward his bedroom. Leon had done a fine job of getting him off the floor, but in his characteristic thickheadedness he had completely forgotten to change D's clothes, and much to his revulsion the entire back of his pants was sticking to him with cloying wetness unique only to thick liquids like blood. He could smell it now too, the metallic, irony odor of it, and it made him sick. D couldn't stand the sight or smell of blood, not an animal's and definitely not his own.

A change of clothes, that was what he needed. Clean clothes, a bath maybe, and then to get Leon the righteous fuck _out_ of his home, before he got the inclination that he was welcome there. D made it to his room, and much to his relief Leon didn't follow him. He shed his soiled robes and threw them away right then—he knew he'd never be able to get the smell out, let alone the _stain_. He mourned the loss of his last set of white robes while he washed, and re-dressed in new robes of purple he went back to his kitchen, mentally preparing himself along the way for the sight of all that reddish-brown on the tile, and the task of cleaning it up. He thought of all the china that had broken when he'd slipped, and thanked the kami none of it had been his very best china.

He took a breath before stepping into the brightly lit kitchen, and was about to turn around and perhaps call someone else in to clean it

(_but the blood how would he explain all the _blood_ there was so much of it_)

when he heard a barely muffled curse and the tinkering sound that only china made when you hit it together. Peeking around the corner D saw Leon was still there, and that the blood was gone. Well, most of it—the greatest amount had been washed away—some had soaked into the cracks between the tile, and there was really no getting that out. As for the shards of broken cups, Leon had swept them into a dustpan, and he was retrieving the stray pieces by hand that had skittered away to the further corners by the refrigerator. He'd cut himself (expectedly, Orcot wasn't exactly graceful) and was now nursing a small but deep cut on his finger.

D sighed and rolled his eyes, and this drew Leon's attention to him. He was crouching so he had to look up, and this suited D just fine. His dear detective was a good four inches taller than him when they stood face to face, and it had always irked him, so having Leon on his knees before him was a sight good enough to make him smile. A strained smile, but a smile nonetheless, and even Leon looked glad to see it.

"Honestly detective, hasn't enough blood gotten on my floor today? And didn't I tell you to leave? Why are you still _here_?" Leon got to his feet, the tip of his finger in his mouth as he sucked it, trying to ease the flow to the wound. To D he looked like a very tall child.

"I was cleaning," he said moodily, a bit offended. "Did you prefer the decor the way it was before?" He was being defensive and D knew this, but he still flinched thinking of the way his kitchen had looked before. He couldn't remember how much time has passed and he looked at the clock on the wall: it read **2:38**in big bold numbers. It hadn't even been midnight yet when he'd fallen, and then only twenty minutes in the bath . . . that left nearly two and half hours unaccounted for.

D imagined himself lifeless and still, propped against the cabinets, the circumference of the pool of his blood slowly getting bigger and bigger, and shivered involuntarily. It was not a pleasant picture. Leon saw him shake and moved forward, and D stepped away quickly. He forced out a terse 'thank you' at Orcot for getting rid of the mess, and retreated to his room again, telling himself he was _not_ fleeing, even though by the time he got to the end of the hallway he was all but running, the pain below his waist forgotten. He didn't want to see Leon now, not when he kept seeing a flickering old-movie style reel of the detective coming through the door, spotting him there with what could only have been an expression of mortification. However he'd expected to find D, it hadn't been like that. And who had put him on the couch, and covered him with a blanket? Tokiwa couldn't have lifted him, and Taizuu wouldn't have touched him with a ten-foot pole. He saw a mental picture of Leon hefting him

(_gently_)

off the floor and carrying him bridal-style to the divan, lying him down. It made his face go red, and after locking the door behind him he took long, shuddery breaths until he was calm enough to think clearly again. He had no reason to believe Leon had done any of that. So far as he knew it was all creative thinking—and why was he creatively thinking _that_? Disturbed and more than just a bit disgusted (with himself and with Leon, though he didn't understand why) he got into bed. Sleep, he told himself, was what he needed now. A good night's rest, and if Leon was still there tomorrow, he decided, he'd let one of the animals eat him.

Leon was, in fact, still there in the morning, and remained miraculously uneaten (though he of course had no idea that D had planned this course of action). He was actually surprisingly chipper, and it grated on D's nerves all day. One, he could not _stand_ Leon, even under the best of circumstances. He only ever put up with him because he has always believed in the tradition of manners—and Leon did bring him something good to eat once in a while. Two, even though the pain had subsided by then, there was still a persistent burn below his navel, and when he walked (though it was a repulsive thought to have) it felt like there was a broken bottle up his ass. He winced with every step, and no matter how he was rebuked Leon continually asked D if he wanted help, even while he was waiting on customers or making tea.

Finally D could take no more of the pestering, and after selling an alpaca to a man with bifocals he pulled Leon aside.

"My _dear_ detective, you have now been situating in my abode for nearly a full twenty-four hours, and unless you intend to arrest me sometime very soon, I'd like to know just what you're sticking around for. So far as I know no one has ended up horribly dead since buying an animal from me, so _what_, praytell, do you _want_?" He'd actually just lied to Leon; one woman had been brutally murdered after buying from him, but she was murdered by her insane ex-boyfriend, and if Leon didn't know this already D felt no need to inform him.

Leon looked appropriately rebuked, and D smiled his give-me-your-best-shot smile. Orcot, strangely enough, didn't take the bait to act like his normally pig-headed self. Instead he rubbed the back of his neck, looking—could it _be_?—almost a mite flustered. Embarrassed, even.

"Look," he began, and waited to make sure D would let him finish before continuing. D did, and Leon said: "I wanted to make sure you weren't about to keel over. It took me a long time to get all that blood cleaned. I started right after I put you on the couch. It took me until you finished getting dressed. I'd just put the bucket away when I went and cut myself."

D saw there was a bandage over the finger now. He nodded to show Leon he understood what he'd just said, and tried very hard (and succeeded) in hiding his relative alarm at learning he was right about Leon moving him. He'd assumed it to begin with, but just thinking about being carried like some dime-store novel damsel made him flush with shame, shame and something . . . something else that made him want to hurl.

"Well, that was very . . . _kind_ of you, detective. But as you can see, I am neither dead nor dying, so I think you're all set. Unless you _do _intend to arrest me, that is." Leon blinked in surprise, then glanced away, and now D was positive that he was ashamed of himself. But as to why, he had no idea. Why would a brash, thoughtless man like Leon Orcot be ashamed of something so trivial as hanging around to make sure D didn't go _kaput_?

D's face suddenly split into a smirk of venom.

He advanced on Leon, and the New York City mean-street trained detective was honest-to-God intimidated, taking a step back without even stopping to consider. D wasn't surprised in the least, and took great, secret pleasure in the fact. He may have been smaller and slimmer, but Leon had already seen all kinds of crazy things that the Chinese count could do, and dared not invoke his wrath. Earlier was playtime, fucking around with D's temper like a toy, but now things were getting serious. D was pissed—no, beyond pissed, he was _furious_.

"So that's it, hm?" he demanded quietly, and it was probably his complete lack of a raised voice that made Leon take another step back. It had been a long time since their last meeting on that ark in the sky, and D could see that Leon had almost forgotten just what he was messing around with. Well then, best to remind him.

"What's . . . D?"

"You're making sure I don't die so you can take me alive," he said. "I thought so. I thought so the night before. You haven't, as of yet, figured out _how_ to arrest me, and so now you're just hanging around, waiting until you can. Will you wait until I pitch a fit or something, like before? You ought to have taken me when I was unconscious, at least then you could have made it easy on yourself!" He started to yell, and he wasn't even aware of it. In the background of the shop the animals had begun to scream. Their individual calls created a din that made it hard for D to think. He felt warm all over, and he started to feel lightheaded. Unbidden he put a hand to his temple. He was beginning to sweat again, and his face was hot to the touch.

"D, no, it's not—"

"Don't you even _dare_ to say that 'it's not what I think' Orcot, or so help me—"

It took D a moment to realize he'd stopped talking. It's another minute before he realizes it's because he fainted dead away, collapsing on the Persian rug he kept by the door.

D dreamt. Lost in the tides of subconsciousness he walked through the waves of slumber until he reached a shore. It was a true shore, and his bare feet sank into the cold, wet sand beneath them. At first he thought he was alone on this mysterious isle, but then low and behold he saw his father. He was sitting on a gilded chair, an eldritch creature in his lap. He pet it languidly, and didn't look up when D approached.

"Father, am I dead?" D asked. His father didn't reply; he set the animal on the sand, and watched it skitter away into the sparse trees before he said anything.

"No, you silly child," he told D. "You're asleep. But they are brothers, sleep and death. You should be careful not to lose yourself in the world of closed eyes and open hearts."

"So this is a dream."

"Yes. And no; it's also a message."

"A . . . a message, father?" The older man nodded, and swept his curtain of shining black hair behind his angled shoulder. Then his clawed hand stole up to D's abdomen, touching the flat plain of his stomach—he rubbed it, a smile on his painted lips.

"Mmm. Transcending the realms of time and space are a simple matter when you're in the process of transitioning physical bodies. But that's not what I came here to tell you." Suddenly he leaned over, and pressed his whole face to D, almost nuzzling his torso. While he did this gentle action his hands were digging into D's hips, the points of his nails biting into the flesh beneath his tunic. D said nothing of this, unsure if the pain was really from his dream-father's nails or if his body off in the waking world was still suffering.

"What did you mean to tell me then?" he asked, eager for the dream to end before it could turn into a nightmare. His father became still, ceasing his efforts. D opened his mouth to call his father's name, but at that moment the man began to speak again, and D didn't like a word of what he said.

"_It's almost your time_. _Soon you must seek a sire_. _Spring is upon you_."

In a bizarre twist he kissed D's stomach, his make-up leaving a faint stain in the shape of his pursed lips. Then he pulled away, and as he did he pushed D, and then the shore was gone and D was standing upon nothing at all.

He fell.

This time he woke up in his own bed. His skin was slick with warm sweat and his hands were fisted in the sheets so hard that holes had torn in them, but he was alone; no creepy haunting visage of his dead father, no vanishing shore, no endless black abyss.

D inhaled, forcing himself to breathe. The pain was undoubtedly back, aching and throbbing from his ribcage down, but it wasn't agony anymore. It was tolerable. D hoped it would stay that way, and threw his legs out of bed. He got five steps and then remembered that he hadn't fallen in his bedroom, which meant Leon had carried him. _Again_. Sighing, D went to his door and opened it a crack. The detective wasn't outside, so he took that as a good sign and went downstairs to the shop, cursing all the way because Leon probably hadn't had the sense to change the sign to "closed" while D was out of sorts.

Leon was waiting for him on the couch, his feet (his _dirty_ feet) propped on the coffee table, hands behind his head. D opened his mouth to tear the detective's head off—to tell him to get the hell out of his house before he ironically called the _cops_, before he sicced something big and man-eating on him, before he ripped him apart with his _bare hands_—and then closed it. Leon was sound asleep, snoring quietly, his head tilted a little into the crook of his elbow.

It occurred to D that he'd never really seen Leon sleeping. There had been the few occasions when (by his fault or not) he'd seen Leon unconscious, but never just peacefully lying there, defenseless and

(_handsome_)

so at ease with his surroundings. Leon Orcot was a man of conflict, and the fact that he could sit still for more than a minute mystified D. Getting closer, he inspected the human's face. It was very much the way he recalled it being . . . but wasn't it different, too? There were lines that hadn't been there before, the faint trace of barely recovered bags under his eyes as if he was suffering from insomnia, and D was certain he looked quite a bit thinner.

"I'd forgotten just how persistent he is," D murmured to himself, frowning. During his stay in Munich he'd heard tell that Leon was following him and so he hadn't been all that surprised when he'd shown up in Japan's Chinatown, but he'd had no idea the detective was so hard on himself. When was the last time he'd eaten a full meal or slept in a bed? If he really had been following D everywhere he couldn't have been taking all that good care of himself, he wouldn't have had the time to. D didn't feel guilty about this—it was Leon's stupid decision to follow him to begin with—but he did feel an unwanted sense of obligation, and that was accompanied by a wave of perverse possessiveness.

Hadn't he always referred to Leon as _my_ _dear_ detective, instead of Leon or Detective Orcot or any other possible thing he could have called him? Given the man's beastly nature there had always been the passing temptation to throw a leash around his neck and claim him; why not, he wasn't much different than any other snarling animal in the shop, and he was just as—if not more—wild than any of them.

(_more desirable too_)

D stood up straight, a funny chill shaking him. Had he really just thought that? He shook his head, rubbing his temple. His father's words were coming back to him, along with a steady trickle of foreign emotions that was quickly becoming an uncontrollable geyser.

_Soon you must seek a sire_. D, sick with pain and understanding, crumpled into the chair that sat opposite the couch Leon had passed out on, his head in his hands. Everything made sense now, and D had to take deep breaths to repress his urge to gag or faint, or both.

His father had never told him a great deal about their race beyond their faulty genetics, and their obvious lack of females. All the women of their people had died off many hundreds of years ago, and to date the only ones to remain (that he knew of, anyway) were himself and his grandfather. Leon had done the job of killing his father, and D had always been glad to find that on a personal level this hardly bothered him at all. He had never spared love for his parent, the cruel and sometimes downright sadistic man who had done so many awful things to him growing up. Absently his hand brushed his stomach, and his preternaturally young face creased in anguish. It all made sense, grim and gut-wrenching sense.

Always his father had obsessed over their genetic code. He knew their kind could live for hundreds of years if need be, but who knew just how long they really could live? They died as easily if shot or stabbed as a human did. His father had wanted to remedy the problem of their population, but because there were no more women he had to find a way to reproduce. Their only option had been to mate with humans, but trial and error proved that human women could not carry one of their children to term. Every attempt (and considering his father's looks, there had been many) ended in either a miscarriage or a stillborn.

Eventually the elder D found the path of least resistance to be to simply mutate their genetics. It had taken years upon years of experimentation but he'd finally succeeded, and using his grandfather's DNA his father had managed to splice the two and create D, who his father carried for nine months himself.

It seemed that his father had apparently done the same to him, finding a way to—at the correct age—make him able to bear offspring. D recalled the sensation of his internal organs tearing and shifting and had to fight down another wave of sickness. Having a child was the absolute _last_ thing he wanted to do with his life, but a natural section of his soul yearned for the experience. His was a race of the earth after all, and procreation was not only his goal as a living creature but also his responsibility as the last capable member of his race. He thought of all the animals in his shop that were down the road to extinction and shuddered, suddenly feeling the weight of their short, unfortunate lives.

_Humans have done this to us_, he thought, clenching his fists so tightly his nails made little crescent shapes on his palms. _They have run us down mercilessly to the end of the line, _our_ lines, until we are no more_. The sudden urge to wrap his sharp nails around Leon's throat and squeeze until his eyes popped out came fast and deliciously, and only through a great effort of will did he deny it and send it away. He sighed, his hands lax and bleeding from where his nails had cut him, draped loosely in his lap. The tiny cuts sealed themselves and vanished leaving only the minute blood trails behind, and D stared at the stark contrast of his blood and his skin, one a dark crimson and the other a bright, unblemished white.

(_The blood, that's they key, drink the blood, drink it drink it drink it drink it_)

D shot up out of his chair, a scream on his lips. Like his fury he forced that away too, until he was settled enough to think straight. Were his own genes screaming at him to hop to it, to get a move on and reproduce? He knew the last way to bring about the change was to ingest his own blood—it left the body, oxygenized, and became like a fertile starter for the womb that had no doubt grown inside him by now. No womb like some human's; it would more likely take the shape of a cavity in his abdomen, a birth canal and all already shaping. D wiped his hand on his pant leg before covering his mouth to stifle his nausea. He didn't want any blood getting in him, not yet. He knew the point of spilling so much to begin with was to supply the bearer with enough to ensure they consumed some later (funny how this all came back to him _now_), but he wouldn't drink of drop, not until he was ready, _if_ he was ever ready.

_Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it!_ he cursed mentally, pacing frantically across the carpet, his bare feet stirring the fibers until a path had been traced by his toes. He wrung his hands, chewed his lip, tugged his hair and hugged himself. The anxiety was terrible gnawing at him the way it did, but the pain in his body combined with the voices in his head were far worse than his emotional strain. At that moment his entire body was screaming for him to climb astride Leon, let him inside, accept his seed and _continue the circle of Life_. D wanted to hurl, scream, murder Orcot and have his way with him all at once, and he couldn't handle all that, not today.

He fled—the room, the apartment, the building. There was no thought, only animal instinct to run, run far away, and never look back, which was just what D did. Later he would calm down and realize how stupid it had been of him to leave Leon alone in his home, but that was tomorrow; this was still today, and D only wanted to get as far as possible as fast as possible.

What the fuck did I just write? The worst part is, there's more. This is only the first part.

Fuck.


	2. Sow the Seed

II.

Night had fallen. When Leon woke up he was alone. The apartment was dark, and there was no noise. Woo-Fei had gone to great lengths to ensure privacy for all his tenants, and not only where the walls, ceilings and floors insulated, but sound-reflectors had been put into the corners of every room, to bounce sound just the right way to eliminate it. Orcot came back from sleep feeling refreshed, and just about as afraid as he'd ever been. None of the animals were barking or growling, the A/C wasn't running, and every light was off. The silence and the dark were suffocating—Leon leapt off the couch, and walked back and forth with his hands outstretched, trying to remember where the light switches were.

"D?" he called, fumbling twice over his own feet before he managed to get to a wall. "D?" There was no answer from the Chinese count. There was no answer at all, only his lonely echo, and it sounded as scared and nervous as he felt.

"Where the fuck did that bastard go?" he mumbled, tracing the wall beneath his hands, exploring its painted texture for a smooth rectangle of plastic that would mean his salvation. It was twenty minutes before he finally found it, and after his eyes adjusted to the light he saw something rather odd.

The door was open. _Wide_ open, in fact. It didn't escape Leon's notice that D's shoes were by the door, meaning not only had he left, but he'd left in a hurry. He knew the Count fairly well by then—better than most, who either were dead or gone—and he'd never go anywhere without something on his feet. He was a snob that way. Leon reasoned that D could just have worn another pair of shoes, but never in his life would he leave the door to his shop open.

"D?" he called one last fruitless time, knowing already he'd get no answer. Scowling, Leon fetched his jacket and ran out after him, hoping he'd get to him in time.

D knew he wasn't dreaming. Most of his life he'd spent discerning dreams from reality, and unfortunately what he was seeing was real. It was Leon, running toward him. At least, he supposed it was Leon: only Leon had that bedraggled blonde hair and dressed like some fashion reject from the early 90's. It was raining by then, and D, from his position on the ground, could barely see through the rain in his eyes. It made everything blurry.

"Detective?" he said aloud, more to himself, but Leon heard and ran faster, dropping down on one knee at D's side.

"What the fuck're you doing out here?" Leon demanded, all but screaming in D's ears. The Count made a shooing gesture, and turned his face away. If that was how Leon was going to be, then he didn't want to see him. Thought most of his animosity and temporary insanity had drained away he still wasn't in the mood.

"Go away, detective," D muttered, closing his eyes, blinking away the

(_tears_)

rain drops. He was curled up on the wet concrete of an alleyway, and he faced the bricks, preferring their rough touch to that of Orcot's even if his body was screaming for him. Leon growled, and grabbed hold of D's shirt, hefting him up off the ground so that his bare feet were half an inch in the air. D made no move to stop him, too tired and in too much pain to try. He only hung there limp and uncaring, tears steadily slipping from his mix-matched eyes to mingle with the rain.

Both of them were soaked through by now, and Leon, who sensed D was going to become very ill soon, bit down on his tongue to hide his words and pulled D into an embrace, carrying him bridal-style out of the alley.

Now D was in a fighting mood. He would have let Leon beat him half-to-death if that had been the detective's wish, but to let him carry him as if he were some helpless, hapless creature with no dignity? He'd rather run on a broken leg, and he let Leon know so, clawing his face with one savage motion. Orcot let out a harsh cry and dropped D into the gutter, where he fell into a puddle so deep that kneeling in it the water reached mid-thigh.

"Go _away_, detective!" he screamed, finally showing some real animation, his pretty face contorting in fury. "I told you to leave me alone, so why _can't_ you! Get out of this city! Get out of Japan! Go back to America, you disgusting, foul, _parasite_!"

Leon, lying on the curb, said nothing. He was holding his face where D had scratched him—there were four long tracks, starting at his cheekbone, tapering across his nose to end at the corner of his mouth. Blood wept from all of them, thick rivulets trickling down to coat his collar in red. D didn't hang around to see what Leon would do: he picked himself up and started walking back to his apartment, limping and sobbing, his entire outfit sagging on his thin frame. He was oblivious to the gaping mouths and staring eyes as he went, unconcerned with whether or not anyone saw him. His pride was already wounded, why not kick it a little more?

He heard rather than saw Leon following him. It ought to have troubled D just how easily he recognized Leon's footsteps among an entire city, but he was too drained, from running and from his unusual outburst. _I do believe that was a mood swing_, he thought, catching a glimpse of Leon in the reflective panel of a building window. He was still nursing his cuts, but he had his old, determined look in his face, the fiery eyes and set jaw, remnants of another time. D remembered how he used to look that way when he thought for sure he had D pinned on something or other illegal, and he'd come busting into the shop, waving handcuffs and shouting up a storm. _Cancer is easier to get rid of than him_, D mused as he climbed the steps, holding on to the railing for support, and out of precaution. There was a good chance he could slip, and then where would he be? On his back with a broken spine, and Leon all over him again.

Amazingly he made it inside without anyone seeing him or trying to stop him, and once inside he locked the doors, knowing it was probably pointless, since Leon could always go complaining to Taizuu if he wanted in that badly.

Standing at the door, D began to think. It was a dangerous pastime, he knew, but when his physical form had failed him he was left with his mental capacity, thought it was up for debate just how sound _that_ was at the moment. He was thinking on Leon carrying him from the kitchen, and his strange and uncharacteristic embarrassment, and the terror in his eyes at seeing D in the alley, and the blatant hurt when D clawed him, not just from the pain of it but the fact that D had hurt him at all.

With a sigh D unlocked the door. _I must be going crazy_, he frowned, and went to change before he soaked his entire carpet. Sometime later, after a short bath, he heard the door open. In the living room he found Orcot, looking uncertainly around him, dripping ever more water onto the floor. Another sigh, this time of exasperation.

"Bathroom, detective," he said shortly, indicating the way. Leon blinked in surprise and started to say something, but D gave him an icy glare that got the man going. In all the time Orcot had been in the shop he'd never gone into the master bath, so it was no surprise that he took the time to look around. It was just as lavish and Oriental as the rest of D's home—even the tiles were inlaid with opal or jade and outlined with gold flake. He might have admired it longer, but D was already running the water in the huge red tub.

"You already needed this," D said, testing the water with his wrist as it came out of the faucet. When the tub was full he stood up straight, smoothing the front of shirt. Leon noticed that his hand lingered on the flat plane of his stomach for a moment longer than normal. "Pass your wet clothes to me through the door, I'll bring you something that doesn't reek like a dead rat, and when you're done I'll also tend to . . . to your face." His eyes didn't quite meet Leon's, and the door was shut before he could reply. Begrudgingly he shed his soaked clothing, all except his police issued gun and holster, and passed them through the door to D as he'd requested. He waited, and a minute later a tunic and pants were thrust back through. They were silk, a material Leon was fairly proud to say he'd never worn before, but they did smell a hell of a lot better than his old things. With an exasperated sigh of his own he set the clothes aside and got into the water.

In the kitchen D made tea, and he was constantly having to send away inquisitive and pestering animals, T-chan most of all, who was normally not affectionate at all but insisted on rubbing against D's legs. D chalked it up to the fact he was exuding pheromones, another unwanted ability so graciously gifted to him by his father. He had to stink of them to the high heavens; he could smell himself, and though they had no effect on him, he was driving the animals nuts. He sent them to their individual cages or rooms and ordered them to leave off of him, and give him some peace. Unsurprisingly, they listened much better than Leon, who apparently lacked the power to do so, no matter what D said or did.

_Do I have to claw his eyes out to make him go away?_ _Honestly, he's more persistent than any other person I've ever seen_.

"D?" The Count glanced up from the tea pot, and saw Leon standing in the doorway. For a second he had to backtrack to earlier, so he could distinguish just who he was looking at.

"Detective," he said a little uncertainly. Leon's hair was out of its casual ponytail, and clean and shaven, dressed so exotically, he looked almost like a different person. A smile tugged at the corner of D's mouth, and he beat it off with a stick. "Care for a cup?" he asked, holding out one of his remaining china cups after pouring the steaming tea inside. Leon gave it a cursory glance, taking it slowly, as if afraid D might upend the boiling drink onto his front. D wouldn't have put it past himself, except that he'd never use tea as a weapon unless in an emergency—that would be a waste of tea.

"Come into the living room," said D, "and I'll treat those cuts." He sat his own tea on the table, and returned with a small first aid kit. He himself had no use for it, but all tenants who ran businesses were required to have one on the premises. Leon, who hadn't touched his own tea, watched D with a wary eye while he picked through the box, fishing out anti-septic and bandages. D caught the look he was giving him and rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop it, detective; you're not going to get an infection from me. I assure you, the underside of my nails are cleaner than most hospitals. Now sit still, I'm sure you know this is going to sting."

Leon jumped when the anti-septic pad touched his skin, hissing through clenched teeth, and D automatically put a hand on his thigh to hold him down. "I said sit still," he glared, and scrubbed as gently as he could along the ragged edges where the skin had already begun to scab. Fresh, clean blood sprung up, and D wiped it all away. When the cuts had been clean D placed a gauze pad over Leon's cheek, and little bandages over his nose and chin.

"Are they going to scar?" Leon asked, half-joking. "If they do, there go my rock-star good looks, right out the window."

"Don't flatter yourself detective," D mumbled, fixing the last bandage. "You were never that attractive to begin with. Now drink your tea, I don't want to think I made it for nothing." Back in his seat D drank down his own drink, gulping it rather than sipping it, scalding his throat. He wanted to be done with it so he could retreat to his room—then a thought struck him. Where was the detective going to sleep? There was only one bed, and it was obvious the insufferable man had no intention of leaving. Not that D would have kicked him out, not after what he'd done to his face, which D would never admit to Leon he was sorry for doing. Well, sorry for wounding him, not for attacking him. He'd completely deserved that.

Across from him Leon took his first taste of his own tea, and D was pleased at the unexpected delight he saw in Leon's eyes. _He likes it_. The detective drank it slowly but eagerly, until it was gone. "What was that, jasmine?" he asked, licking his lips. He'd drank the dregs too, showing how little he knew about tea-drinking.

"No, Devil's Club," D said, stopping short of swallowing the bits of leaves and debris at the bottom. "It has restorative properties. Ah, you see? They're working already." Leon looked confused for a moment at the tone in D's voice, and then his hand went to his face. The cuts were completely gone, as if they'd evaporated. He tore away the bandages, and ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror. D followed him mostly out of curiosity, and smirked when the detective whirled on him, demanding an explanation.

"Surely I've shown you stranger things," D said, not at all intimidated by the detective's angry advances. In fact, he caught himself moving closer, so that their chests almost touched. Leon was too pissed to observe this change in placement until he felt D's thighs press against his, and one of D's clawed hands stroked his jaw line.

"D, what the hell are you—" he began, then stopped. His pupils dilated suddenly, like he'd taken a hit of heroin straight to the vein, and he leaned in to D, his face in D's hair. "You smell . . . you smell _good_," he said in wonder, inhaling the strange new odor D was expelling. His arms slipped soundlessly around D's waist, and he pulled him into a tight embrace, no fear of being reprimanded with teeth or nails. D didn't move, not right away. He was too scared; scared of just what, he wasn't entirely sure. Was it his own desire that frightened him, or the fact that this encounter was now out of his control? Maybe it was the strange idea that when this carnal act was over there was going to be new life blossoming inside him, like some hungry flower, taking root to grow and spore and feed.

"Oh, detective," D sighed when Leon's strong hands ran down his back to grasp his supple behind. His fingers were hard and urgent, sliding into his pants to delve into D, to touch him inside, where he probed him readily.

"You're wet," Leon said, mystified. His other hand was roaming D's shoulders and arms, to trace his chest. "And soft, like a girl." It was true; D was slim with almost no muscle to his frame. Because of this he caught himself testing Leon, exploring the tough masculine ridges of his body. When Leon brushed something deep in D the Count jerked, gasping in alarm, his hands making fists in Leon's shirt. He heard Orcot chuckle, and felt his warm breath on his neck. He rubbed the spot again, and again, until D was red in the face and all his worldly composure had crumbled. He was moaning softly, rubbing his groin into Leon's, and whimpering whenever that odd place in him was fondled.

"Detective, you're torturing me," D bit, impatient and painfully aroused. Leon, instead of being sympathetic, only laughed again and rubbed harder and faster, until D was an absolute mess, unable to stand in his own and shaking uncontrollably. Finally Leon took pity on him. He scooped D up bridal style for the last time, and D didn't fight at all as he was carried to his bedroom and splayed languidly upon the sheets. Leon began undressing him immediately, and D smirked at his difficulty in removing his clothes. Eventually he slapped his fumbling hands away and undid his dress himself, tossing the intricate clothing away, already forgotten. His pants Leon had no problem with, and these he removed slowly, tugging them down inch by inch to reveal D's smooth alabaster stomach, hips, and legs.

"You don't have any body hair," Leon observed as he kissed his way up the inside of D's ankle.

"My people are an-androgynous," D stuttered when Leon's mouth got to the junction of his thigh, as if it were an explanation. D was glad there were no questions on his ancestry from Leon, who was too busy licking his way up D's abdomen to be very chatty. He paused once to circle D's navel with his tongue before going higher to tease each nipple to firmness. D threw his head back and moaned, and this encouraged Leon to suck on them, nipping them gently with his teeth until D was trembling again, his nails making little scored paths in the blanket when he clenched his fists. "Bite them," he said suddenly to Leon, who perked his head in question. "Go on, bite them," he repeated, "bite them hard, until they bleed." Orcot looked off-put for a moment, unsure. D gave him a more genuine smile than he would normally, and caressed his freshly shaven cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Do it fast, and it won't hurt. Hurry, before I lose myself and forget." Leon might have questioned him then, but D kept his gaze steady and serious, and so with great reluctance Leon put his mouth over one of D's tender pink nipples and bit down with his canines.

"_Ahh!_" D's back arched and his pained cry made Leon flinch. He opened his mouth to ask D if he was alright, but his face was planted right back over the now bleeding patch of flesh. Even Leon didn't need an explanation of what D wanted him to do—he lapped the blood timidly, licking it all away. His pupils dilated again, and he shuddered once, violently. One more heavy bead of red welled up and D swiped it with the tip of his finger. He stared at it for what felt a long time.

_Moment of truth_, he thought, and put the finger in his mouth, sucking the smudge of his own blood off.

The effect was slow at first, but it built with time, until it was as if there was a fire in him, and the pain was back, white-hot and cruel. He cried out again, spasming angrily, and he fought for breath. Leon had recovered from his own shock by then, and he held D down while he had his last fit. The agony was unbearable, and for several seconds D was certain he would die, right there in his bed.

Then it was gone. All of it, flushed away as quick as it had come, tapering off until at last his insides calmed. In its wake there was a sensation of completion so perfect he smiled, and let a calm, easy exhale. He had never felt so tranquil. Leon was still kneeling over him, question in his eyes, and D pat him on the cheek fondly, then knotted his hand in Leon's hair and dragged him into a kiss, their first, and D could taste his blood in Leon's mouth, along with the Devil's Club tea and another flavor that was uniquely Leon Orcot. He imagined the detective was tasting something similar—blood, tea, and uniqueness—and let their tongues slide together to intermingle it all, until specifics were indistinguishable.

Later on, when Leon was asleep, D slunk out of his own bed to run to the bathroom. It was awkward going; he was sticky and sore, and he limped when he walked. When he got into the bathroom he shut the door behind him, sagged against it and took a breath as deep he could, letting it out slowly.

Like a man in the aftermath of a bombing, D stood for a long time staring, looking at nothing in specific but instead trying to survey all the carnage at once. His hands in place of his eyes examined himself, tracing bite marks, bruises, and tears from nails, until like macabre inventory he'd cataloged and recorded every new blemish. They would vanish in a matter of moments, and he wanted to remember how he had looked, like a rape victim who took pictures. He had to commit every captured image to memory, because what had just transpired was something he never intended to do, ever again, if at all possible.

It wasn't that it hadn't been good. Actually it was certifiably fan-fucking-tastic. D himself had climaxed three times and though pleasure had never been a mystery to him it had never been so intense as it had with Leon, and that was exactly _why_ he could never do it again. Something had happened, something terrible and wonderful, and D would risk his life to ensure that something never repeated itself.


End file.
